


Finding Home

by ishipthat



Series: Going Home [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Future Fic, GOD THIS PAINED ME TO WRITE, Happy Ending, M/M, i swear it's happy this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishipthat/pseuds/ishipthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stiles' flight goes down someone has to deal with the aftermath. And he has to find a home somewhere.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It's surprisingly serene, yet primal, the desire to survive taking over his functions; the flailing of his arms below the water line, the steady gulps of breath into his lungs, it's all mechanic.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>His eyelids begin to droop before he has the chance to process everything, or even try to recall what had happened, or figure out why his brain kept screaming for Derek, the voices in his head repeating his name like a mantra.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Home

**Author's Note:**

> Yyyooooooo, just finished my writing binge and this is probably riddled with mistakes but I'll try and fix that in the morning when I'm not dying. This was so fun to run with, I had about five different endings circling around in my head, but this version just sort of mapped itself out.
> 
> This is a follow up to Going Nowhere since a few people asked me to write a squeal. I do advise you read that one first because this will make no sense if you don't. Everyone that commented has been absolutely lovely, and I adore you all for your support in this fic :') I could write a million more follow ups.
> 
> Also, this kind of turned AU, because Scott/Allison are endgame and I miss Derek's betas ok :(  
> ~ Jake

At first it's just adrenaline, the sound of water thundering around him. His legs feel paralyzed, but he manages to paddle enough to stay afloat with the aid of the life jacket.

It's surprisingly serene, yet primal, the desire to survive taking over his functions; the flailing of his arms below the water line, the steady gulps of breath into his lungs, it's all mechanic.

Another lapse in consciousness, and there's a whirling sound from above, winds beating down upon the waves like a whip. The water around him is illuminated, sparkling in the low evening light. It feels safe, like he's watching the scene play out upon a screen miles away. 

The gentle darkness envelopes him once again, and he feels something snake around his middle like strong arms and soothing hands.

\---

When Stiles wakes next the blaring florescent lights above him make his eyes blur painfully. Flashes of a helicopter overhead and the feeling of floating spun across his mind and it disoriented him, even in his horizontal position. 

The noises of the hospital bled in around him and Stiles felt his heart begin to race, heard it reflected in the bleeping of the machine beside him. Almost immediately the doors slammed open and a flurry of doctors milled around him, checking charts and prodding him and asking how he felt.

“Derek...” He croaks out from the sandpaper texture of his throat. Someone props his pillows up and pushes a paper cup of water into his hand. He gulps it down graciously.

“Mr. Stilinski,” He hears from the doorway, and a man wonders in glancing at a chart. “How are you feeling?” Stiles nods wordlessly and the doctor smiles. “You're very lucky we found you with your identification in tact. Your father has been contacted, he should be here soon.” He offers with a comforting smile.

“What happened?” Stiles manages to force out, though his throat feels tight at the thought of seeing his father.

The doctor hums before looking properly at Stiles. “You were on a flight and the plane went down, just a few miles out. You are currently in Chicago's central hospital and we should be able to discharge you by tomorrow if things go well.”

He wants to ask more, questions the doctor wouldn't be able to answer. Stiles looks at the mans dark and soft skin, the bright yellow smudge of mustard on his lower lip, the expensive ring on his finger. He looks happy, from what Stiles can tell, like he's worked his whole life to be where he is and he didn't waste a second of it doing something that didn't make him happy. Stiles envied him.

The doctor goes to talk to him again, the start of his birth name tilting on the edge of his tongue and Stiles corrects him before he can go any further.

“So, Stiles, you may have a hard time recalling the events on the lead up to the accident but it should all trickle back eventually.” Suddenly his face twists, his mouth evening out. Stiles' heart picks up again. “Unfortunately, you're one of only 4 people who survived the accident. Our staff can assure that the camera crews and journalists don't get to you in here, but once you leave you ought to be careful who you talk to. The airline has also attempted to contact you, so I think it's wise for you to talk to them once you've rested.”

He tries to focus on breathing, but can't quite get the hang of inhalation and the air stutters in his chest painfully. “Take it easy now, Stiles. Some one will come by once your father arrives.”

Stiles tracks the movements of the man as he slips the chart into a rack on the end of the bed and softly clicks the door shut behind him. His eyelids begin to droop before he has the chance to process everything, or even try to recall what had happened, or figure out why his brain kept screaming for Derek, the voices in his head repeating his name like a mantra.

\---

It's late evening by the time he rouses again, and he pushes himself up on shaky elbows to see a polite young nurse with her head poking through the door way. “Your dad is here.” She smiles cheerily and his dad is pushing through the door seconds later.

There's more worry lines around his eyes than he remembers seeing the last time he'd gone home, which was almost four months ago for the Christmas break. Stiles had left before New Year because he couldn't stand the thought of all his friends trying to talk him into attending the annual New Years party at Scott's. 

John lets out a heavy sigh and silently reaches out to clutch Stiles into his chest. He hears a choked sound at the back of his dads throat and he can't bring himself to look up, because he knows he'll just see tears in the mans eyes and there's nothing worse than watching your parents cry. 

After a silence that stretches on too long to be comfortable his dad pulls away. His eyes are dry and red when he looks at Stiles, hands bracing on his sons shoulders. “You gave me a real scare, kiddo.” When he speaks his voice is watery, and he coughs as he turns to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry I left before New Years.” John looks confused, and Stiles shuffles over so they can sit side by side in the small space.

“That was months ago, what does it matter now?”

Stiles tries to smother his startled whimper. “It does, dad, it does matter. I almost-” He knows he doesn't have to say it out loud, because it's already hanging heavy in the air, and hearing the words might make it too real for his dad to handle. “I've wasted so many years of my life. And all because I kept running from my home – my real home... I was just scared.”

His dad knows what's going on, he's seen it before at work with the people held at gun point, the survivors of car crashes, the people convicted for murder. It's a way of processing hard situations, the life or death ones. They see it as a second chance. John wishes that almost everyone got that second chance.

“Scared of what, son?” He soothes him by carding a hand in Stiles' messy hair, and his head falls onto his dads shoulder. Stiles should be far too old for this kind of thing, but he feels vulnerable, like for the first time in a long time he's allowed to be vulnerable.

Stiles can tell by the shocked jump his dad makes from beside him that he wasn't expecting Stiles to break. Loud, heart-wretching sobs rip themselves from deep within him, and his shoulders shake in anguish. “I fucked up, dad. God, I fucked up so bad. All those people died because I let it in, my friends couldn't even look at me, I'm so weak.” His dad tried to speak, but he cuts him off. “I know I should stay away, that it's best for everyone if I just stay here in Chicago, but I can't do that anymore. Fuck, I wasted half my life here, miserable and alone, but I don't care anymore! I don't care if my friends only look at me with pity and disgust, I don't care if half the town hates me, I don't care if- if you can't see me the same. I just... need to go home.”

John laughs through his tears and holds Stiles even closer. “Thank God, thank _God_. I've been waiting so long for this.” Stiles tries not to feel that like a punch in the chest, but it winds him anyway. “Everyone back home thought you just need space to adjust. You know, I have a bunch of fully grown adults that walk into my house uninvited, bring _salad_ to the station every Monday, and generally bug me about you every damn day. I know they mean well, Stiles, but it was beginning to get too much when I heard less from you than I did from Peter Hale.”

He lets out a broken noise, because this is the first he's heard of all this, and it's probably got a lot to do with the fact that he changed his number and deleted his Facebook account years ago.

“And you can stop that right now,” He continues. “Because _no one_ blames you for those deaths but yourself. You were stronger than all of us could ever hope to be. And trust me when I say, you saved more lives than you took.” John looks directly into Stiles' eyes, and Stiles can remember all the times his dad used to use that as a trick to get him to tell the truth or warn him not to do something. “I love you no matter what, and nothing that happened with the nogitsune made me think any less of you. In fact, it helped me realize how much you're like your mother. She never gave up, even when it looked to everyone else like she had, she was always fighting on the inside.”

Stiles doesn't know what to say, he can't digest the thought that this suffering had been completely self inflicted the whole time. He knows nothing will take it back, but he figures that he's paid his dues for all the things his father claims he didn't do. And Stiles thinks he can maybe live with that now.

They talk for a while longer, and John offers to go out and get Stiles a new phone. A voice in his head tells him there's something important hidden there but he shakes it off. He calls up the security company after that to let him dad into his flat so he can get started on packing up Stiles' belongings. They decide to book a flight for the next evening when the doctor promises to discharge him, as long as nothing major crops up.

“We'll be home soon, kid.” His dad says as he kisses him on the forehead that night, leaving him in the dimly lit hospital room alone.

He dreams in the black and white colors of wedding suits, the soundtrack a constant dial tone, and words fall from his mouth in the form of ash. He dreams of eyes that glow like embers and extinguish themselves with salty tears.

\---

Stiles doesn't even think about it until they're boarding, but he's looking out the airport window down the length of the planes wing, and a violent flash of fire and water swallows him. His dad is rushing to his side as he collapses, a guilty look splayed across his face. 

“Stiles, I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd get like this.” He steels himself after that, blames his fall on the fact that he'd been in bed for nearly two days. Stiles can tell his dad doesn't believe him, but he doesn't put up a fight when they're walking through the ramp and searching for their seats.

The flight goes by fairly fast, and Stiles only has three panic attacks. The first one he rode out by himself in the small space of the toilet cubical. The second time he let his dad hold his hand and tell him to breathe. The third one comes when they encounter some light turbulence and Stiles keeps wanting to walk the length of the plane to check for fire.

When they land Stiles looks like hell, his face exhausted and arms unable to carry the heavy bags. He refuses to let his dad take them in case he does his back in, and gets the airport staff to help them into a taxi instead.

His dad turns to him when they're ten minutes outside of Beacon Hills.

“I may've texted Scott to say I'm on my way back.” And really, Stiles can't seem to comprehend that his dad texts his best friend now. They're on texting terms. His dad has the ability to _text_. He figures he must've drifted through the last few years in a haze of discontent, ignoring everything that hurt.

“Everyone will be there, won't they? When I get back- get home.” He corrects himself with a smile.

John nods, glancing over at Stiles in the passengers seat. “I can tell them to jog on if you need the space.” He huffs because his dad is treating him like he's delicate. But he knows he's given him real reason to be cautious, so Stiles lets it slide.

“Nah,” He shuffles in his seat, cracking his spine. “I've always loved surprises.” 

They pull up to the house and he tells his dad to go ahead inside. Stiles sits in the back seat for a minute, heart pounding insistently against his ribs. It was a close to painful mix of excitement and anxiety, but he did his best to push the bad thoughts behind a door in his mind.

He hears Scott's voice before anything else, and a gleeful smile bursts onto his face. It's an awe-filled moment, since he hasn't felt so genuinely happy in so long, he almost forgot what it was like.

“I should've come with you! Maybe if he saw me, I would have convinced him to come home.” It's possible that Scott's shouting has drowned out even his own hearing because no one noticed him come in. He watches wordlessly at the way Allison is sitting with her legs crossed in the armchair, Isaac and Erica and Boyd are squashed into the sofa and seem alarmingly comfortable. It looks like home, _they_ look like home. Scott is facing down his dad and Derek – god, _Derek_ \- has his back to everyone else. His shoulders are slumped and his clothes look creased, like he slept in them. Derek always took such pride in his appearance, wouldn't leave the house without ironing everything.

This picture of him, though only from the back, was so, _so_ wrong. 

If Derek had been in actual wolf form Stiles bets he would've seen his ears prick up. He turns slowly, an empty expression marring his features. They stand awkwardly for a moment, eyes locking in an exchange of shock and confusion. Then Scott turns to see him.

“I'm home.” He offers weakly, and everyone in the room is suddenly up and staring at him.

Scott all but runs towards him and clings on for dear life. Stiles drops the bags at his side a lets out a breathy laugh. 

Scott honest to god cries and doesn't let go of Stiles for ten minutes, so everyone has a conversation around him whilst Stiles rubs soothing circles into his friends shoulder. He doesn't even think about mocking him, because bros don't mock bros, and Stiles has been gone for what feels like a lifetime to Scott.

They all steer away from the topic of the accident, but they attempt to fit in a general catch up of everyone's lives beyond what Stiles hears at holidays. Derek stands in the doorway as if ready to make a quick escape, hands silently shoved in the pockets of his gray track pants.

He thinks Derek is ignoring him at first, but he keeps throwing Stiles these wounded looks and he's trying to figure them out since he has no idea what he's done to Derek. Christ, they haven't even spoken in-

He stops mid-sentence and everyone is looking at him like he might have broken.

“Ok, out. Everyone out.” He's shooing them, and it's weird that they do what he says without question. They were obedient and attentive and it was kind of a wonderful thing to come home to. “Derek, don't move another inch.” And Derek flinches like he's been burnt by the very sound of Stiles saying his name.

When the house is quiet, his dad disappearing upstairs, Stiles sighs.

“Was it real?” He asks, his voice tired and defeated. The abrupt attack of the memory of him sobbing down the phone at Derek in what had seemed like his final moment made him ashamed. “Was what I said-”

Stiles doesn't get another word out, Derek just collapses into him, arms encasing his shoulders and face hiding against the base of his neck. He only realizes Derek is crying when he feels the wetness of his tears on his skin. It takes a while for Stiles to convince himself not to freak out because Derek feels so good and real and he wants to cry with the force of how bittersweet the contact is.

“I thought you were dead.” The voice, when it comes, is so broken down that it almost sounds like it isn't Derek. “I thought-” And that just brings on another wave of tears. It's breaking Stiles' heart, he can feel how real Derek is, and how much his pain probably doesn't mean what Stiles wants it to mean.

“I need to get this clear,” He says when Derek doesn't look like he'll move for a while. “What I said to you on the phone. It was all real. I don't... I think, you said back – you said you loved me too.” Stiles would've cried if he had the energy to, but he's never been so emotionally exhausted, and all he wants right now is to keep pressing his hands into the firm heat of Derek's lower back.

Derek nods against him.

“Did you mean it?”

Another nod.

“So all this time,” Stiles trails off and pulls back to cradle Derek's face in his hands. He looks younger like this, vulnerable, his eyes wide with tears and mouth drawn down in an awful pout. Stiles wants this, wants to kiss the pain away from Derek. He wants to draw out all the missed opportunities through Derek's lips and press his fingers to all the places he'd missed. “You never said anything.”

“Neither did you.”

Stiles drops his hands and gives an exasperated shake of his head. “I was broken.” 

Derek forces out a bitter laugh. “So was I.”

And Stiles wants to fucking kick himself, because of course Derek thought he was broken, just like Stiles. His family, they were dead and Derek had spent his whole life blaming himself, never really stopped until he made a new pack. Even then he still had the baggage of trying to run away from this place, only to be dragged back. Stiles _knew_ how he felt. Except he didn't come back for death. He came back for love.

Derek looks up at him through his eyelashes and they press their foreheads together, hands finding each other and searching, twisting, linking. 

“After you called me I came straight here. Your dad found me in your old room, I couldn't even move. I told him, eventually. But it wasn't long until we got the call from the hospital.” Stiles wants to shut him up, but he thinks maybe it's important to hear this. “When he got off the phone I begged him to let me come too, but he told me it was too soon. He knew, you know. This whole time he knew how much I loved you.”

Derek's hands come up to Stiles' chest, like he's making sure he really is safe.

“I couldn't tell what was real.” For Stiles, that drags up a lot of meaning. “When I woke up I didn't even remembering calling you, but when I saw you I knew, I just didn't know which bit was real.” He lets himself smile now, lets the happiness of being home with Derek flood his veins. He wants to drown in Derek.

“Does this mean you're staying?” Derek asks, pushing away from Stiles suddenly. When Stiles nods cautiously Derek looks like he's never been more alive, and he crowds back into Stiles' space.

“You have no idea how much I love you.” His grin is playful as their noses bump together.

“Oh, I think I do.” And Stiles pressed a hand to the back of Derek's neck, guiding their lips together in a tender kiss. This, Stiles thinks, is home.


End file.
